


Britain in the Sixties:  The Other England

by mydogwatson



Series: The Postcard Tales [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is good, M/M, Sherlock is a hippie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different time, but Holmes and Watson meet anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Britain in the Sixties:  The Other England

**Author's Note:**

> If you think that I didn't panic when this title came up, think again. I expect some readers will be put off by the title, but, frankly, I rather fell in love with this after it was written. Hope others agree!

His mates all insisted that he was an idiot to be leaving the party early. He needed to get drunk and get laid, they told him more than once. After all, they were now finished at uni and he, in addition, was soon to be off into the tender mercies of the Royal Army Corps. Both of those things called, apparently, for the vast consumption of alcohol and the attentions of a willing female.

John, ever pleasant, just smiled and edged his way towards the door of the pub. He did not tell anyone where he was going or why. None of their business, really.

He stopped at a cabby tea shack and got two cardboard cups of strong PG Tips, then walked four blocks to the usual corner.

The boy was there again, wearing the same grubby denims, the ridiculously wide bell-bottoms looking a little damp, as always. Tonight the teeshirt was a shrunken tribute to the Rolling Stones. Ridiculous dark curls almost reached his shoulders and the expected joint dangled from his perpetually pouty lips. John wandered up to him, as if it were pure coincidence that he happened to be there, tea in hand. A coincidence that had happened every Tuesday and Thursday night for nearly three months.

The boy [and John called him that, although he had no idea of his actual age, but to a twenty-two year old he seemed young] gave a slight grunt, which was the only thank-you ever issued, but that meant it was a good night, because on the bad nights he never even got that much.

John perched precariously on the ledge next to him, wondering, for far from the first time, why he kept coming back here to talk with [or, most often, at] this hippie lost boy. But, since it was apparently a good night, he decided to risk some conversation. “So,” he said after a couple swallows of tea, “what’s new?”

The raised brow aimed his way left no doubt as to how the question was received, but there was a response anyway. So, a very good night, then. “New murder. Man found hanging from a rafter in the bowels of King’s Cross Station.” He sneered elegantly, which John always enjoyed far more than he should have done. “Idiot pigs think it was suicide.”

John considered his tea for a moment. “It wasn’t suicide?” The boy saw murder wherever he looked, so John was not alarmed by the idea.

“Of course it wasn’t. They completely ignored the small bruises which proved that he was forced onto the box.”

John stared into the strange pale grey eyes. “And you know about the bruises how, exactly?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Didn’t think you had,” John replied placidly.

“Who do you think found the stiff and got the pigs there?” The brief and flashing grin was as rare as sunny day in May. “I just got lucky when I stopped for a piss.”

John couldn’t help smiling back and something shifted in his chest. He ignored it, because what else could he do? “Well, I have some news, too,” he said. “Got my papers yesterday. I leave on Saturday to start army training.”

The frown was thunderous. “I thought you were going to medical school next.” So he did listen when John talked. That was a bit surprising.

“I am. But the army will pay for it.”

“They might send you to war and you could get killed.”

“Well, I hope not.”

“Idiot.” The cardboard cup was crushed and tossed into the gutter. “Who will bring me my tea?”

There was a long pause. “My name is John Watson,” he said.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Oddly, they shook hands. There was no more conversation and ten minutes later, John left. When he reached the kerb, he turned and looked back at Sherlock, who raised one hand in a sort of wave. John returned the gesture and then he left, wondering what would happen to Sherlock Holmes without John bringing him tea.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Britain in the Sixties by Geoffrey Moorhouse


End file.
